Rehearsal
by fallen-musician
Summary: Written for a totally unofficial kinkmeme thing, prompt being "rehearsal." After viewing one of Mozart's rehearsals, Salieri may need some practice of his own. SalierixMozart/MozartxSalieri.


Antonio Salieri's life had never been one of physical passion. He had God, and his music. That was all he needed. Perhaps there had been a time, once, when he had been more aware of the shapes of flesh and the brightness of eyes, but that time had faded. His lust had all but disappeared, sublimated into his music just like his love of sugar and all the other extraneous wants and needs that had once plagued him. His music and God. That was all he needed.

Until he met Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

Mozart had been only a name at first, tossed across the salons of Vienna like a ball in a child's game of catch. Salieri had heard just a few snatches of song fingered across the keyboards of noble dilettantes who fancied themselves talented. Nothing complex or carefully composed, nothing that could convince him that this man—this _child_, really, only in his twenties—was anything more than the emperor's prize peacock, dandied up in clothes that allegedly sparkled more than a society lady's.

It had been Gottlieb Stephanie's fault, of course. Salieri had never quite approved of that silly librettist who never stood still or even spoke in a register that befitted a man. Of course Stephanie would be fascinated by this so-called prodigy who insisted on causing as much immature trouble as possible by claiming he would compose a German opera. Stephanie should have entrusted whatever nonsense he had written this time to Salieri. Perhaps then it would actually become noteworthy. A naïve little popinjay could never compose anything that would allow Stephanie's words to be remembered.

Yet despite these misgivings, Mozart had risen in the eyes of the emperor. And Salieri had been sent to watch Mozart rehearse, to supervise, in a sense, his work with Stephanie. And then...

Salieri couldn't have said if he had stood there and listened to Mozart's magic for seconds or minutes or hours or days. All he knew was that the music suddenly ended, and Mozart's voice was interrupting the ecstasy he had not felt since his passion had been lost within his music. "Well then, Maestro? Are there too many notes?"

It was overly hot in the rehearsal room, Salieri thought, and a brief image of Mozart slowly slipping off his coat and unbuttoning his waistcoat flitted across the other composer's mind, too quickly for him to absorb the thought and process it properly. Instead, Salieri was left to cough awkwardly, swallow a few times, and finally answer Mozart's question.

"It was...good."

"Good? Have you gone mad? Signora Cavalieri gave one of her very best performances today! The music was well-composed and well-played, and you know it! It was excellent, at the _very_ least."

"It was good, Herr Mozart. That is all."

Emotions flew across Mozart's face as quickly as each little note of a clarinet's trill before settling on an enigmatic almost-smile that barely hinted at a pout of disappointment in Salieri's lack of enthusiasm. Mozart then waved his hand in a showy imitation of his previous conducting and called out to the orchestra: "You all are dismissed! I wish to speak to Herr Salieri alone."

The musicians gathered their instruments and music rather matter-of-factly, and Salieri noted that they seemed to be accustomed to Mozart's caprices. This man—no, this _boy—_could never have composed those notes he had just heard! Too many notes, yes, just as Count Rosenberg had remarked earlier. And yet the notes were sublime, ephemeral, from Heaven itself.

Salieri stood to the side and watched as Mozart strutted across the stage, as arrogant as a fighting cock, tapping little impatient staccatos with his feet as he bid farewell to his musicians and his diva. Until they were all finally gone, and Mozart jumped off the stage. "Well, Maestro? Salieri? What is your opinion? There's no one to hear you, if you are really that ashamed of complimenting me."

"I already gave you my opinion. It was good. You're too arrogant, Herr Mozart. I have some advice for you, if you want to survive at the emperor's court: stay in your place, and all will be well between us."

He had to turn to leave, there was no other option. Remaining there would mean being baffled even further by this strange incongruence before him. It was as if Jesus Christ had taken on the form of Satan, as if the sweet low notes of a viola had emanated from the bell of a trumpet. And the more Salieri stared in perverse fascination, the more he would be compelled to stay, to pick apart the chords interwoven around this man before him, until the mysterious harmony of his existence had finally been spread out for the world to see.

But the voice of an angel in a pleading mezzo-forte slipped out of the lips of that devil and waltzed towards Salieri's ears.

"Wait! Salieri! Please."

And how could he not obey that voice, the voice of the man who transcribe the music of God? How could he not obey that voice, when the strange unbidden image he had banished to the back of his mind was creeping forward to his eyes, unbuttoning every last waistcoat button with slow and accented precision?

Salieri turned. And waited.

"Maestro...," Mozart began hesitantly, "I've...I've heard your music before. You are a good composer. A great composer. Your name will be remembered. I trust you to give an honest appraisal of my work. Do not humiliate me so." Though the younger composer had avoided the word "please," one could not ignore the hint of a plea and the begging tone in his voice.

"It was..." It was difficult for Salieri to form the words. "It was...excellent. It is...a piece for the ages, Herr Mozart."

A hint of a pleased little blush bloomed on Mozart's face, clashing horrifically with his bright coat. "Thank you, Maestro. You flatter me."

"I tell the truth."

"Could I repay you, then, for your truth-telling? A drink, perhaps? Unless you had something else in mind?"

And before Salieri could quite comprehend what had happened, Mozart had crossed the stage and was now surprisingly close, close enough to smell the faint fragrance of cologne, close enough to pick out each individual sparkle shining on his coat.

Salieri cleared his throat. Mozart's tone was innocent. There was nothing meant behind that statement, nothing at all. But Mozart seemed to notice his hesitation, notice the way Salieri's cheeks had begun to just barely flush. And Mozart smiled, catlike.

"I heard you were a skilled vocal composer, Maestro."

"I...some have said."

"Would it please you to give me some vocal lessons, then?"

"If...if you would like."

Salieri was vaguely aware that he was stammering, unable to form the cool, smooth sentences he was so known for. But—oh, dear Lord, this had to be the devil's work.

Mozart was meanwhile removing his coat with deceptive nonchalance. "It's rather warm in here, isn't it?" he remarked, before tossing the coat across the room so it landed haphazardly on the nearest music stand. "Really, Maestro, you must be sweltering. Let me remove your coat."

"I'm fine, truly."

Mozart's hands were on his shoulders and Mozart's breath was on his neck and Mozart's fingers were deftly pulling off his black coat and it was as if all the years of carefully-controlled feelings had been blotted out by this angel from hell and his unearthly music.

Mozart's hands slipped down Salieri's arms in their continual effort to remove his coat, just a few inches of space between the two.

Salieri closed the gap.

It was an awkward, hesitant kiss. Salieri was out of practice—he hadn't had too much of an opportunity since his wedding night, as Theresa was not the most affectionate of wives. And no matter how much practice Mozart had had (quite a bit, if court gossip was anything to go by), he had certainly been taken by surprise. But as they pulled away, there wasn't shock on Mozart's face, nor did he turn away in disgust. Instead, that cat-like smile emerged again.

"My dear Salieri, that wasn't quite what I meant by vocal lessons."

Something else was controlling Salieri now. All his inhibitions seemed to have been burnt away by the man in front of him, with his teasing, his mocking, his music.

A grand pause. A catch of breath. A chance to survey the orchestra in front of him, to chose where to give his cues, to decide where those notes, already pre-planned and pre-written in front of him, would lead him next.

And _then_. The music began once more.

"If that wasn't what you meant, Herr Mozart, you should have been more specific."

"I'm not sure about that. I might prefer this. Though you'll forgive me for saying so, Maestro, but when it comes to kissing, I might be a little more qualified to give _you_ lessons."

"Then prove it."

And now Mozart took the lead, one hand finishing pulling off Salieri's coat while the other wove itself up into the Italian composer's hair. His lips were persuasive, but not insistent—he was clearly giving Salieri some leeway, allowing him to take whatever lead he chose while still encouraging him to slowly open his mouth.

And Salieri did so, and met Mozart's skillful tongue with his own. Salieri struggled in his mind to come up with some way to describe this feeling, but all he could think of was music, music, and music couldn't come close to describing the way Mozart clung to him and kissed him.

Salieri lost himself in the kiss, and as they came up for air he could see Mozart's face was similarly flushed and his eyes were half-lidded in obvious pleasure. "Salieri..." he breathed out, and the other composer took this opportunity to pull Mozart a little closer towards him, enough to feel every curve and angle of his body.

Mozart allowed himself to be moved, but after a minute, he put his hands to Salieri's chest in a silent command of "wait," before taking Salieri's hand and leading him onto the nearby stage. Mozart collapsed on the floor in the center of the half-circle of chairs, drawing Salieri on top of him. Their hands slipped down each other's bodies, fumbling with buttons and ties, caught up in a rush Salieri had never felt before, until they were completely unclothed.

Salieri took this opportunity to balance on his hands and survey the prize beneath him. Mozart was still flushed and breathing hard, lips parted slightly and red from kissing. His arms were fastened around Salieri's torso, whether in a measure of possessiveness or submissiveness, and as Salieri's eyes moved downward...

Oh, God have mercy, what was he _doing_?

But Mozart gave a him cheeky little grin and—Lord, where was his hand _moving_? Oh, touch it more, touch it more—pulled Salieri in closer. "I thought you said you didn't need me to teach you anything. It certainly seems now like you need some lessons."

Salieri scowled at the younger man beneath him. Mozart wasn't about to get the better of him, now or ever. "I don't need lessons. Perhaps I am...a little out of practice. But I don't need lessons."

"A rehearsal then?"

"Perhaps."

"Then play, please, Salieri."

And Salieri obeyed the command—when had he become so obedient to Mozart?—and let his hand wander like Mozart's, down, down further, to wrap around what he would have never dared to touch before now. And Mozart's back arched in response, his mouth opening, as if inviting Salieri to cover it with further kisses. And the more Salieri stroked, the more Mozart moaned, and the more Salieri kissed those oh-so-sinful lips.

They moved together, in unison, writhing on the stage floor, not caring if they accidentally kicked a music stand, sending the score of an aria flying onto them, carpeting the ground. And it seemed like hours passed among those music stands, though perhaps it was only minutes as their pleasure rolled and crescendoed, washing over them like waves of music.

Finally Mozart's mouth opened in a cry of ecstasy, and Salieri bit down on his lover's shoulder, leaving a mark that would last for at least a few days. They lay there, panting among the sheet music, unable to move, concentrating simply on making their breath go in and out, their chests rising and falling together..

Until finally.

"My...My God, Mozart... That was..."

"Dear Lord..."

"Mozart...?"

"...Yes?"

"Perhaps...perhaps I will need another rehearsal. I don't know if my...my technique is quite perfect."

Mozart laughed, and kissed Salieri-slowly, a lover's kiss now. "Your technique was outstanding. But I would truly love to rehearse with you once more."


End file.
